“I think all or two out of three. I have to hope for two out of three, because then it’s done. Or probably done. Like Lowenbaum said, the shooter’s feeling pretty fine. More, if one is target specific, I’ll damn well find out who and why. But if all three were pulled out of a damn hat…”
“If it was all random, why the rink?”
He thought like a cop, but since he was being so helpful, she wouldn’t insult him by mentioning it. “Public, big impact. Media frenzy. That would be a high motive for an LDSK. Maybe he has a problem with the rink itself. Maybe his wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever, dumped him there. Maybe he used to skate but sustained an injury so he’s pissed at skaters.”
She brooded over it – so many maybes. “She’s pregnant. The wife of the third vic. She just found out, hadn’t even told him yet. Was going to tell him over the first-date lunch re-creation.”
Roarke let out a sigh. “The ripples go on and on, don’t they? It’s never just the victim, just the dead, you stand over. It’s also those they leave behind.”
“Her father’s Irish – a little more of an accent than you, but just a little. I think he and the ex have the civil, but I doubt they have holiday meals together, you know? But they were a unit around the daughter. And he – the father – stayed back with me for a minute, talked about his son-in-law. You could see he loved him.
“It matters,” she said, reaching for her water, “because I think he’s going to be the least of it. If one of the others was target specific, he’ll be the least. An afterthought.”
“Not for you, Eve.”
“She was first. The girl in red. Couldn’t miss her, like Lowenbaum said. Wouldn’t you take out the target first, make sure you did the job? Part of me leans there. But then, I think, how cocky are you, you bastard? And it seems to me somebody who can do this, who does this, that’s plenty cocky.”
“So you bookend the target – one before, one after.”
“Just another maybe.”
“How can I help?”
She looked over at him. “You were working when I got home.”
“No, actually, I’d just finished what I was doing when those designs came through. I was looking at them a second time when you came home. I’ve nothing I need to do.”
He took her hand again. “I’m sorry for the wife, the parents, and all the other ripples. But it’s the girl, that girl in red, who’ll haunt me for a while. She had such joy on her face, such freedom in her movements. He ended that. I’d like to help you find who ended that.”
Home, she thought again. Him. Where she could lean and not lose who and what she was.
“Collectors. Of the tactical, since Lowenbaum figures most likely there, but of anything that could make those strikes from outside the park.”
“That’s easy enough. Give me something a bit more challenging.”
“Okay. Buildings, east of the park, let’s say between Fifty-Seventh and Sixty-First. All the way back to the river. We’ll eliminate any with solid screening. It’s going to be a long enough list. And Lowenbaum said above, so buildings over four floors. We can jog that up or down if they can pinpoint angles more closely.”
She ate more stew, cocked her head. “How many of them do you figure you own?”
He picked up his wine, smiled. “Won’t it be interesting to find out?”
With Roarke in his adjoining office, Eve settled down to the routine that was never really routine. Running backgrounds on the victims and witnesses, on staff, running probabilities. She wrote up a comprehensive report, read it over, added more.
Then she sat back, fresh coffee in her mug, boots on her desk, and studied her board.
Why only three? That stuck in her gut. The speed and accuracy said this shooter could have taken a dozen, or more, within minutes. If the motive, as the general rule applied to LDSKs, was panic and fear: Why only three?
And why these three?
The girl in red made a bright target. The color, her youth, her skill, her speed and grace. Maybe a specific target, but all those attributes leaned Eve toward of the moment.
The third victim, part of a couple – and not regulars. Their plans to be on the ice on that day, at that time, not widely known outside a tight circle.
Of the moment again.
But the second victim. The obstetrician, the regular. That rink, that time, that day of the week habitual.
If there had been a specific target, her personal probability index rated Brent Michaelson high.
But it was a big if.
All random?
She rose with her coffee and circled her board, studied the positions of the bodies.
Then why only three?
“Computer, run crime scene security video, back one minute from cue-up.”
Acknowledged…
Leaning back on the desk, she watched the skaters, studied the three victims as they moved on the ice. Then the first hit, the second, the last.
Some continued to skate for several more seconds, providing more targets. Others started to panic, rush, and stumble toward the exit, even over the wall. More targets. The two Good Samaritan medicals moved in, providing more targets, easier ones, she considered, than the three victims had been.
But only three, only those specific three.
The shit would hit, of course. The media would ring that gong and the killings would be top of the reports and stories for at least a few days. But take a dozen – kill or injure – that’s top story for weeks.